Sooner or Later (9 page)

The next morning, she couldn’t get that image out of her mind: a bunch of laughing kids at the beach and big handsome Danny Boy, the heartthrob of the coast, fishing them out of the waves when they wiped out. All that afternoon, while she was working, he lurked in the back of her mind. Finally, when it got to evening, she said the hell with it, picked up the phone and called him.

“Hi,” she said. “It’s the surfer girl who rear-ended you.”

Dan’s eyebrows shot up and a pleased smile curled the edges of his mouth. “You again,” he said, shoving the mutt off the chair for the tenth time. And for the tenth time it climbed back up again and sat there, tongue lolling.
He stared at it, exasperated. That darned dog had a mind of its own. It also had a barrel-body perched on long skinny legs, a long plumed tail and shaggy, molting black and tan fur. It looked like a moth-eaten fur cushion, but it also had a face exactly like the dog in
Babe
, and right now he could swear it was grinning at him. Suddenly, it gave a mischievous woof, wagged its plumed tail and sent everything crashing from the table.

Ellie held the phone from her ear, then asked, astonished, “Was that a dog?”

It barked again and Dan said, “Meet my new friend, Pancho. I couldn’t stand watching the sunset alone.”

“That bad, huh?” Ellie was smiling.

“That bad,” he agreed hopefully.

“I was just thinking, the cafe is closed on Mondays. I usually drive up to see my grandmother. Why don’t we have dinner? It doesn’t have to be fancy, a barbecue on the beach would be fine.”

Dan laughed. “You’re talking to a city slicker here, I don’t think I ever saw a barbecue in Times Square, I’m not sure I’d know what to do with one anymore.”

“Then I’ll just have to teach you, Danny Boy. You can’t be a Californian and not know how to sling a steak onto the grill. Don’t worry, I’ll bring the fixings, you chill the wine.”

“At least I know something about that.”

“You’d better,” she said, mockingly. “Around seven then, Monday?”

He gave her the address and said sincerely, “I’m looking forward to it, Ellie.”

“Me too.” She kept her voice deliberately cool. “See you tomorrow, Danny Boy. Around seven.”

He waited for her to disconnect, then poured a glass of Cakebread chardonnay. Leaning on the deck rail, he watched the sky turn midnight blue, until the ocean finally
blended into the horizon. He hoped one day he would make a wine as good as the one he was drinking, and wondered where he could buy a barbecue tomorrow. Life felt pretty good.

“You really did it!” Maya, who’d been eavesdropping again, appeared at Ellie’s elbow. “I’ll lend you my new Versace. Bright red and clinging. It’ll look great with your hair.”

“What are you doing, buying Versace? You can’t afford it.”

“Don’t you know it’s the Sales, woman. They’re on everywhere. You want it? It’s yours.”

“I’m bringing steaks, he’s barbecuing them. Not exactly a Versace kind of night. But thanks anyway, I know your intentions were entirely dishonorable.”

“I just want you to have fun.” There was a wistful edge to Maya’s voice, and Ellie could see she really meant it.

A little wellspring of excitement bubbled inside her, like champagne. She’d kept herself on the straight-and-narrow workpath for over a year now and the thought of a date and a little fun, away from the daily grind of the cafe, made her feel the way she used to when she was a kid and Saturday morning rolled round, with no school and a long, lazy weekend to look forward to.

It was only one evening, but a beach house and a barbecue and Dan Cassidy sounded like a great recipe for relaxation to her. Though, of course, with her tough work schedule and single-minded quest for success, right now, romance was out of the question. Subdued, she hurried back into the kitchen to check on the chef and find out why the food was emerging so slowly. If she weren’t here, the whole place would go to hell in a night, she just knew it.

Much later, after Maya had left and the cafe was closed, she set up the tables for the next morning’s breakfast, enjoying the temporary peace and quiet. The traffic had slowed on Main Street, and the few passersby never even glanced at the darkened cafe.

Ellie poured a cup of coffee, then went and sat at a table by the window, gazing into the quiet night. The fog promised by the weatherman was rolling in, as it often did at this time of year, muting the streetlights and muffling the city noise, drifting, silent as smoke. She found it soothing after her noisy, hectic day.

Her conversation with Dan Cassidy floated through her mind and she wondered if he’d heard about the jinx on Running Horse yet. She’d hate to be the one to tell him, but no wine had been produced there in years and they said it was a bad-luck place. She hoped for Dan’s sake it wasn’t true.

Sipping hot coffee, she thought of her mother, wondering wistfully if she would have approved of Dan. It was silly, she told herself, to still long for a mother to share things with. A mother she could ask “Am I doing the right thing with the cafe, and my dedication to success?” Or “What d’you think about this guy?” After all, she was twenty-nine years old, independent and far more worldly-wise than Romany had ever been.

When she was a child, Ellie never realized they were rich, not until she went to school, that is. It seemed normal to her to live in a house with forty rooms, to have a butler and a cook, a housekeeper and maids, a chauffeur and a team of gardeners. She’d never known anything else. Besides, Maria and Gustave the butler and the rest of the household staff were her friends, a substitute family for the parents she’d lost, and the aunts and cousins she’d never had. There was just this big tearing gap in
her life, where once there had been security. A mother and father. Romany and Rory.

For a long time, after the accident, when she closed her eyes she would see their smiling faces again, hear her mother’s light gay laugh, her soft voice telling her she loved her; and her father’s deep one, singing her to sleep with a favorite Neapolitan song. But gradually, their sharp images had faded, and all she was left with were their photographs. She would pore over them, alone in her room, reminding herself of her mother’s smile, and her father’s red hair, knowing she was losing them. And it hurt, all over again, because she wanted so badly to keep them with her, forever.

Even now, a grown woman, she missed them. She wondered how different her life might have been had they lived. It was a big unknown and she sighed, thinking about it. Not that her life had been terrible, far from it. Miss Lottie had been a wonderful companion. She’d been grandmother, mother, father, friend and loyal supporter. She’d shown up for the PTA meetings along with the young parents; she’d cheered on the sidelines at the Softball games; sent her off to camp and written faithfully every day. She had even bailed her out when she was acting like an idiot, that time at college. Miss Lottie hadn’t missed a trick in the parenting book. No one could have done it better.

But there was still something inside Ellie that yearned for the closeness she remembered, at the Stagecoach Cafe, and in the big car, driving home. Just the three of them.

The memory of that day still troubled her. She recalled every detail: the hot leather seat, her mother’s white lizard boots, her father’s last smile and the wink he’d given her. At least, she told herself she remembered everything, but often, in her dreams, she thought there
was something else. Something important, out there, on the blackest edge of her dream. Something she could never capture, because just when she thought she’d got it, all she would see was herself sitting by the side of the road. Alone and crying, with the blood running down her face. And the silence all around her. The silence of death.

A shiver ran down her spine, raising goose bumps. She swallowed the hot coffee quickly and carried the empty cup into the kitchen. Making sure the alarm was on, she slammed the door and locked it. The old-fashioned bell tinkled prettily as she sprinted down the street to the multistory parking lot, into the Jeep and home. She didn’t sleep well that night.

B
UCK THOUGHT
L.A.
WAS HOT, MEANING MORE THAN
just the sun was shining. He was sitting at a cafe table on Sunset Plaza, taking in the crowded lunch scene.

Things had changed in the couple of decades he’d been incarcerated, and he couldn’t believe women like this existed outside of magazines. Tall blondes with long, swingy hair and tight-muscled bodies; lustrous dark-haired women with bold eyes and long, long legs and short skirts; short-cropped red-haired women in ankle boots, tight white T-shirts and lacy skirts. It was a passing parade of Hollywood’s finest, and it took his breath away.

Every now and then, a girl smiled at him as she pushed her way through the crowded tables, and he smiled confidently back. No one would ever dream he’d spent the last twenty years in an institution. With his new look, he fit into the chic, casual crowd as though he belonged.

It was more than the expensive beige chinos, the light linen shirt, the suede Gucci loafers, and the rented convertible
parked in the lot behind the cafe. Now his red hair was a dark chestnut, courtesy of the smart hairdressing salon down the block. The new dark mustache suited his long, lean face, and the cool steel-framed sunglasses hid the heat in his eyes. He looked like a different man. Rich, sleek, good-looking. He looked like a Californian who had it all.

Finishing the iced latte, he paid his check, popped a breathmint in his mouth, then swaggered his way through the crowd, smiling as a girl caught his eye. He felt the power buzzing through him again, heard the voice telling him he could be whoever he liked now. He could do whatever he wanted, have whichever woman he wanted, even the girl smiling at him. He turned purposefully away, his mind was fixed on business.

He was instinctively a man of the streets and he knew how to find what he needed. He drove downtown and took a stroll. He hadn’t gone more than a couple of blocks before he was accosted.

“Coke, mister?” a voice called from the darkened doorway.

Buck’s eyes darted quickly around; the street was almost empty. He turned to the man. He was black and big and menacing, but Buck was buzzing with power and had no fear of him. He had the switchblade palmed, ready.

“What if I told you I was a cop?” He grinned as he said it, enjoying the flash of alarm in the drug pusher’s eyes. He pressed the knife against his stomach.

The guy didn’t breathe. “I … I didn’t mean nothin’, Officer … it’s nothin’ … I’ll just get going …” Flattened against the wall, he slid sideways, and Buck laughed.

Suddenly the pusher reached for his gun. With the same speed and strength of the madman who had almost
strangled his guard, Buck slammed the switchblade into his hand.

The man made no sound, not even a whimper. He just stood there looking at his bloody hand, and at the Glock 27 automatic pistol lying on the step in the dirt and litter. He was trembling like a stunned steer in the abattoir, waiting for the death blow.

“You ain’t no cop,” he gasped. “What d’ya want, mister? Look, y’can have all I got … it’s yours, man…. Just let me go, that’s all.”

Suddenly he was begging, pleading for his life. Buck was enjoying it. He would have liked to string it out further, but business was business.

“You give me the information I need. Maybe I’ll give you your life.”

He pushed the tip of the knife against the man’s ribs, just to remind him who was in charge here, and he sagged against the wall, his hand dripping blood onto the step. His jaw hung slack, his eyes rolled back in his head, and his voice was reedy with terror. “You got it, man, whatever you want …”

“Identity cards, social security …”

“Alvarado Street, that’s where you go … you can buy anything there, man. Twenty, maybe fifty bucks. Anything you want … green cards, driver’s licenses, fake IDs … heroin …”

Buck gave the knife another little push and a red stain grew quickly around the point of the blade. For an instant, he contemplated whether to finish the job, but lolling men wasn’t his thrill. Besides, he was in a good mood, and very much into his new charming role of the rich Californian. Which was only a preview, because as soon as he got his act together, that’s what he really would be.

“Thanks,” he said, still smiling, “for everything.”
Pocketing the Glock, which he considered a nice little bonus in their transaction, he turned and swaggered away. “Consider yourself lucky I’m a gentleman,” he called over his shoulder, still laughing.

The pusher’s knees gave way. He sank back into the doorway, clutching his stomach. His right hand bled steadily and the fingers hung, useless as sausages. “Fuckin’ psycho,” he groaned, scrambling to his feet and stumbling as fast as he could down the block, away from him. “What’s the fuckin’ world comin’ to….”

Alvarado Street was bustling. Buck didn’t even need to look for the sellers. They found him, swarming over the car at the traffic fight, holding their wares up to the window for him to see. Glassine packets of white powders and pills; bogus immigration green cards, fake IDs and passports.

Within a couple of hours, Buck had acquired the name and life of one Edward Jensen, complete with social security card, driver’s license and the registration of a stolen and revamped BMW convertible.

He abandoned the rental car, which he would later report stolen, then drove the BMW to the Santa Monica branch of the First National Bank, where he opened a checking account with one thousand dollars cash, and arranged for the remainder of his money to be transferred from the Madison Avenue bank. Then he took a room at the luxurious Shutters Hotel, right on the beach, where he showered and changed.

Combing his dark hair in the mirror, he checked his new appearance. He was wearing a lightweight business suit, a crisp white shirt and a Hermès tie. He looked like a new man. A power broker. Rich, conservative, attractive, successful. For the moment, Patrick Buckland Duveen no longer existed. And Ed Jensen lived.

Buck asked the concierge to book him a table at the
Ivy at the Shore in Santa Monica, where he had a leisurely dinner and a good bottle of wine. He was charming to the hostess, the table was a good one where he could watch all the action, and he enjoyed the gumbo soup and crab cakes. It was, he thought, satisfied, an excellent day.